bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 4 (1988) — Winter 1988 // Hiver 1988, pp. 41–42
Have you noticed that all passengers look in the same direction
at the bus stop?
Waiting
they stare fixedly
necks craning over those in front
over heads swathed in scarves, toques, hoods
here and there the occasional fur hat
Has a number 12 gone by? you mouth blasts of white breath
which settle in pin points of ice on those frozen about you.
Heads shake numbly
eyes never leaving the bus’ arrival path.
Huddling under the lee of a large lady
you join the quiver of hopefuls
waiting in growing blueish vein
for the expected express
warm and brightly lit
to carry you far from this icy band
now rimmed with a thin veil of snow
borne by shivers of arctic air
stinging noses that shine forth from scarved faces,
biting ears that flap from toqued heads.
“My it’s cold” you mutter
seeking to warm those about you in convivial misery.
No reply.
But the blast-blocking large lady turns slightly towards you
in mutant assent
allowing eddies of raw, white wind
to freeze your nostrils, blocking your breathing.
As you sneeze and gasp in self pity
one more deserving of sympathy arrives;
eyes watering with cold, nose red from blowing
a foreigner obviously by his once rakish derby
(now pulled low about chapped ears)
elegant blue serge coat
well chosen for a January in Windsor
but shatteringly inadequate
before the blast of an Ottawa winter.
Wheeze of anticipation stirs frost-bitten ranks
as warmth of bus lights dance through veils of blowing snow,
only to die of frost bite as first one, then two 62’s pass in quick succession
lowly milk-run routes!
“I do believe they do it deliberately,” says a peevish man’s voice
issuing out of a vermillion toque
separated from a “Maple Leafs” scarf only by a
vermillion nose.
“F…’em all,” rumbles a dark duffle coat
which heart-felt observation shocks the freezing
into a silence as icy as the night’s air.
Now not even persistent sniffles of noses crying in the cold
break the frigid atmosphere;
not even whine of tires
spinning uselessly in snow
brings accustomed camaraderie.
Quietly goose bumps jostle each other for warmth.
Bleak despaire descends
as bone biting as polar air.
Suddenly shifting snow is lighted
white and airy, as wreaths of ice shine in approaching lights.
Express? No.
Another 62.
Who cares.
Blowing and stamping desperate passengers shiver their way aboard
led by vermillion toque and large lady.
Unprotected from Siberian blasts
you have no choice but to succumb
even to a 62!
All board
all that is
save dark duffle coat that rumbles ominously as we leave.
“I can’t understand him,” comments the fur hat,
“I know it’s not an express..”
“And it won’t take us where we want to go,”
interrupts the man from Windsor
ruefully looking at his misshapened derby –
misshapen ever since he pulled it over his ears —
“But at least we’re warm..” the fur continues gamely,
“I’m even beginning to thaw out.”
A momentary discomfort crosses her face, as warming toes register their presence.
Silence descends
as pangs of thawing continue
a thoughtful silence
while passengers contemplate walking
when the bus drops them
far from home.
No one says a word.
But the Windsorite eloquently pulls his Derby
around his ears.
Ah. The joys of commuting in an Ottawa winter!
View the original scanned pages →
Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 4 (1988) — Winter 1988 // Hiver 1988, pp. 41–42. Read the rest of this issue →
